


Quote, Unquote

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, Denial, Desperation, First Kiss, Frottage, Hell Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Love, M/M, Pining, Poems, Poetry, Possessive Dean, Pre-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Queer Sam, Requited Unrequited Love, Road Head, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their love is legendary. Their love was made to be written about.</p><p>6,500 languages in the world. Let's pick just one. English: 1,025,109 words. Over one million possible ways to express a single feeling, a solitary emotion that branches out with heavy fingers and clings between two souls in a grip that will never falter. Yet somehow, with all these words, all these book and poems and sonnets and narratives and prose that are made from the same black ink and the same pale pages and the same twenty six letters, and still. Still. Not a single one can even begin to encapsulate what they mean to each other. What they would do for each other. How they would die for each other. </p><p>Some do come close, brushing the surface of it all with a few well-placed words and a bit of good grace. It's luck, more than anything, but they still can help us understand, try to understand, the bond they have between them. The one so tried and true against heaven, hell and everything in between. The one that, above all else, won't break. They won't ever break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Secrets

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.” –Pablo Neruda

∞

This has always been the one thing Dean kept close to his chest, like a handful of cards pressed tightly to the front of his shirt so no one can see them. No one else is allowed to see the way his feelings are painted delicately on the front of the plastic-coated paper. These are his. Only his.

Even he only allows himself to sift through his hand, to fan the imaginary cards of his soul before his eyes for a brief, longing glance when he is engulfed in the darkness on a motel bed. It is dangerous, then, in those times that he lays everything out to boldly stare each card, each feeling, in the face. But instead of looking at cards, he’s looking at a body. A body with a face brushed in the silver of the night, eyelashes spreading out like dark fingers on the curve of soft cheekbone, and a parted mouth, the deadliest sin, passing air in and out of lungs that Dean wants to climb into more than anything else in the world, just to share breaths and feel what it is like to truly become one with the other half of his whole.

They wouldn’t get it, the others, wouldn’t be able to begin to comprehend it if Dean ever showed them his hand. Not even the ones who love Sam almost as much as he does. He says ‘almost’ because this is just a fact of life, the same way that someone says the sky is blue or the earth is round: no one could ever love Sam as much as Dean does. There isn’t anyone in the goddamn world who can look at Sam and truly see just how important this small human being is, just how much every inch of him is worth. Because he’s worth so goddamn much, this kid. Dean’s only sixteen when he really gets it. He has only been living and breathing and protecting and nurturing and caring, because their father can’t care enough, won’t care enough, never gives _enough_ , for just over a decade and a half and even still, he knows that there isn't anything in the world as precious as Sammy.

Dean knows others won't understand just from the way outsiders look at them both, curled into one another in the bench seat of the diner. When they were younger, the waitresses would smile and coo about how nice it was for siblings to get along so well. When they were older, the waitresses fell silent and let the judgement in their eyes reach across the sticky diner tables and taint the pancakes Dean shovelled into his mouth with an acrid taste. There's nothing wrong with them. Just because Sam is more comfortable under the curve of Dean's arm and likes to tangle his feet around Dean's ankles doesn’t mean that something sick or sinful is happening. They find their greatest comfort in each other. Who has a right to judge that?

Sometimes Dean thinks that maybe Sam knows about the way Dean feels about him. It’s the look in his eye when Dean kneels down to his level and helps him into his winter coat; it’s the way Sam will just watch Dean, nothing but a pair of wide hazel eyes observing him as he sits down on the couch next to Sam and starts to read from their favorite book; it’s how Sam can always sense when Dean needs the comfort of skin against skin and reaches over to twine his fingers between Dean's until their hands are fused into one. So, maybe Sam knows. Not the full extent of the overwhelming avalanche of All The Things Dean Feels About Sam, but to some small degree, he knows.

It scares Dean. It fucking terrifies him, the way he feels. The way he can’t breathe as he watches his little brother grow up, like an invisible vacuum is suctioning out every last molecule of oxygen from his lungs until he’s literally gasping for air in an attempt to loosen the painful constriction in his chest. The way his stomach drops as he reaches forward and, instead of feeling baby fat, soft and plush against his tickling fingers, finds toned stomach muscles. The way it makes his skin crawl to see that Sam is up to Dean’s shoulder, then is eye level, now is towering over Dean like it’s nothing because no, Sam’s his little brother, he’s supposed to stay small so that Dean can protect him.

Sam is growing up, but Dean doesn’t want him to grow away. He doesn’t want to lose what they have, doesn’t want the looks that they share to crack and shatter like a mirror beneath a fist, doesn’t want to become blind to the silent understandings that slip around the back of John’s head and into one another in a way only they can decode.

Someone up there must be smiling down on Dean for once, because he gets his wish. Sam seems just as determined to stay shoulder-to-shoulder and hand-in-hand with his brother through the stepping stones of his life. Dean is there for him, teaches him how to swim with encouraging shouts as Sam paddles in place in Dean’s arms, how to ride a bike without training wheels, how to talk to girls and not duck his head, how to kiss girls,  complete with a demonstration on the back of Sam’s hand, how to start hustling pool now that his voice is growing deeper and he can pass for the legal age, how to brace against the kickback of a shotgun, how to pour over endless fragile pages in hopes of finding the way to stop the killings. Every stage of Sam’s adolescence, every transitioning slide into adulthood, Dean makes sure he’s there and Sam makes sure he stays.

Dean should know that good things only last for so long.

He thinks that maybe Sam can finally see the sinful shadow in Dean’s eye that can’t stop trailing over the planes of smooth skin belonging now to a man, not a boy. Maybe Sam can feel the desperation in the fingers Dean curls around the back of his neck when Dean’s driving and can’t stand to not have his hands on the one constant light in his life, even though the space between them is merely a foot and a half of cracked leather. Maybe it’s because Dean nearly lost his mind on the last hunt the three of them did together as a family.

A poltergeist in Wisconsin wreaking havoc on patients and doctors alike in a newly renovated hospital wing. They split up, each taking a floor to put their respective purification bags in the north, south, east and west corners to banish the malevolent spirit. Dean knows something’s wrong when he finally manages to lunge forward, despite the heart rate monitor wires wrapped around his neck, and shove his final bag into the hole he kicked into the plaster fifteen minutes ago before he started getting assaulted by every loose object in the room. After the purification bags release a throb that resonates through his floor, the cords go limp around his neck. Dean gets to his feet, only to hear a heavy thud right over his head, like a body being dropped. Like Sammy, who is in charge of the floor above Dean’s, being dropped.

Dean is flying down the hall and up the staircase faster than he can think, throwing himself into the room where he’d heard the noise to find Sam on the ground, his clothes pinned to the tile by a multitude of sharp instruments, scalpels and needles and scissors. A buzzsaw is levitating just above Sam, its power cord unplugged and dangling over his stomach as it somehow turns on, the blades whirring in a terrifyingly high whine that releases a torrential wash of fear down Dean’s spine. Of course this had to be an operating room.

Dean launches himself into the south corner where the two walls meet, grabbing Sam’s last purification bag from the floor where it had probably dropped from his hand as he strove to fight off the onslaught of deadly objects hurtling his way. Dean cracks the hard knob of his elbow in through the plaster once, twice, three times. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the buzzsaw turn to face him. He has seconds, if that. His fingers clutching the bag make it into the gaping maw he just made right as the buzzsaw shoots forward to shear his face off. The purifying pulse that rushes through the room and the rest of the floor causes the blades to stop spinning and the instrument to die immediately, clattering to the ground by Dean’s feet.

He doesn’t even give himself time to recover from his own near-death experience before he’s over to Sam, dropping to his knees to start yanking the sharp metal tools out of the sleeves of Sam’s shirt and the outer material covering his legs. Dean can hear Sam’s choked, hiccupping sobs and can’t wrench the last two scalpels away from where they are pinning down his brother fast enough. The moment they’re free, Sam snaps up to throw his arms around Dean, his hot, panting breaths searing the skin of Dean’s neck.

“You’re safe, Sammy, you’re safe.” Dean whispers the promise into the sweat-matted hair at Sam’s temple. He hopes Sam can’t hear the tremble in his voice, leftover from the shock of seeing death itself looming over the body of his little brother who had only turned eighteen a month ago, dammit, just stepped into a new chapter in his life, how fucking _dare_ this sonuvabitch try to take Sam before he ever got a chance to change the world? Sam’s fingers are scrabbling up Dean’s back as he hauls himself tighter into Dean’s arms, his chest heaving as he struggles to take enough oxygen into fear-stricken lungs. Dean can barely breathe himself, his air choking off as he worms his hands up through the non-existent space between them to grab hold of Sam’s face. Drawing Sam away from his shoulder, Dean holds Sam still as he runs his eyes over his brother’s eyes, nose, cheeks, chin, taking note of Sam’s split lip and the slowly purpling mark across his left cheekbone. “You’re okay.”

Dean doesn’t know if he’s saying it to convince Sam or himself.

What he does know is that he can’t stop himself from drawing Sam closer to him, pushing their foreheads together tight enough that it’s going to leave a red mark from the pressure. They’re both still panting and it’s just a hot exchange of humid air between their mouths. Dean can’t help it. He closes his eyes, digs his fingertips into the sides of Sam’s skull, he fucking hopes he leaves marks because Sam is his, dammit, and he lets himself drift closer. Sam’s hands are on him, one squeezing the back of his neck like he's never going to let go and the other mimicking Dean’s hold on him, his fingers clutching Dean’s cheek with bruising force.

Time is suspended and the only thing Dean can focus on in the otherworldly experience of the present being put on pause is the fact that his nose is pressed tight along the line of Sam’s and that he can taste Sam’s breath on his tongue. Neither of them can break out of the thick cloud of fear that had settled into their bones at the possibility that one of them could have lost their brother just now. How else are they supposed to find reassurance if not by sucking in each and every very real, very alive exhale from the other’s mouth?

Gathering enough strength to open his eyes, Dean finds Sam watching him with that same, intense stare he used to give Dean when they were young and Dean was tucking the sheets around Sam like a cocoon, looking at him all concentrated and serious as if Dean was a foreign word that Sam was struggling to understand. It makes goosebumps prickle up the length of Dean’s forearms.

He can feel it start to build, that deep, shadowed emotion that usually stews low in his stomach, the one he’s been fighting to smother and tamp down all these years, but it’s here now, breaching the walls in his eyes to show Sam the one thing Dean could never put a name on. Dean knows Sam sees it because his fingers tighten that much harder on the side of Dean's face.

Before Sam has a chance to shove Dean away in disgust and horror and everything else Dean deserves to have thrown his way, Dean pulls away and heaves them both up into a stand. Forcing his feet to shuffle backwards, Dean claps a hand on Sam's shoulder and musters up a too-bright smile.

"Good thing I got here when I did or you would've been short a limb." Dean makes an attempt to tease but the blank expression plastered on Sam's face shuts him up quick. Dean can't read his thoughts, which is really fucking Dean up because Sammy wears his heart on his sleeve. Dean can always read Sam's thoughts. Except for this moment, this one time Dean wishes above all else that he could see what words were running through his brother's mind.

The tension snaps when John bursts into the room, demanding a quick list of any personal injuries and a status report on each of their jobs. They get back on the road within the hour and Sam opts to sit in the front seat with John.

Sam never sits in the front seat with John.

Dean really shouldn't be surprised when Sam throws his Stanford acceptance letter on top of the old Latin books he and John are reading through the next night.

The fight that follows would put the eruption of Mount Vesuvius to shame, with John bellowing and sweeping his arm in front of him as if he hopes the surge of air that follows will knock some sense into his youngest, _After all I’ve done for you-_ , and Sam’s cruel laughter as he stands his ground, throwing his finger to Dean who is frozen in his seat as Sam screams back, _What do you mean after all YOU have done for me, you haven’t done shit all, Dad, Dean’s the only one who’s ever been there for me-_  then there’s a resounding slap that echoes into the marrow of Dean’s bones and suddenly his fist is connecting with his father’s cheekbone. John’s a sturdy man so he doesn’t go down, but he’s stumbling backwards in shock, catching himself on the table. Dean can’t find it in himself to care, only forces his shrieking knuckles to unlock and open so they can palm at the growing red handprint marring the side of Sam’s face.

“Sam, fuck, Sammy, don’t, please-” Pathetic, even to his own ears, the way he’s begging his brother to stay, even though he knows Sam has seen the black taint lining the inside of his soul, even though he knows Sam is leaving because Dean loves him _toomuch_ and God, Dean doesn’t blame him, can’t blame him since this is all his fault anyway. But still, he pleads, because he hasn’t ever had to go through a day of his life where Sam hasn’t been the center of his universe, the reason he tries to get off work early to pick Sam up from school, or the reason to stock up on Twizzlers and Reese’s Cups for their routine movie night every Friday, or the reason to do start a laundry because Sam doesn’t have any more clean socks. So to have this brick slammed into the side of Dean’s head, this heavy blow of realization that Sam is _leaving_ and taking the other half of Dean’s heart with him, it’s incapacitating him, making him numb and fumbling as he takes Sam’s face between his hands.

Dean’s expecting disgust to contort Sam’s face and for him to detach himself with a horrible shove, but all Dean can see is a blanket of heart-breaking agony screwing Sam’s mouth into a tight, silent line. Sam wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrists, gently lifts them from his cheeks. It’s done with more love and care than Dean deserves.

When Sam steps back and swings his duffle bag up onto his shoulder, Dean is certain he’s going to puke on his boots. John’s shouting again, spitting words laced with venom and that acid seeps into Dean’s stomach too, making it churn as he watches Sam stare silently back at their father before moving his eyes at last to Dean. Dean barely realizes he’s leaning on the wall nearest to him, his weight sinking into the crappy wallpaper because his goddamn knees are giving out, Sammy _no_ , then the front door is open and swallowing his brother into the night.

Dean finds it fitting that he can’t see any stars. The universe turned out the celestial lights to make this day just as dark as the cavern being carved into Dean’s soul.

Over the following months, Dean tries to find another answer in the bottom of countless whiskey bottles, but he can’t stop coming back to the only reason Sam could have wanted to leave. It’s Dean’s fault. He should have thrown up a stronger wall to hide his feelings, should have stopped himself from allowing a hint of light to expose the shadow painted on the inside of his body, the shadow that craves and wants and needs in a way that Dean shouldn’t be craving or wanting or needing.

Dean has learned his lesson. Secrets are best left in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original intention was to follow this work from one pre-series chapter through seasons 1 to 10 in sequence and only have 11 chapters. Somehow I have a feeling that this story is going to go in a completely different direction and end up leaving me in the dust, so I am leaving the number of chapters unknown for the moment. I also will be building up the tags as I write since I'm not entirely sure that I've got all the ones yet to come. 
> 
> I hope some of you enjoyed reading it - bear with me, I know it's short but I promise I'll be getting to the good stuff soon. Happy reading!


	2. Sin

“Tasting what could have been—what should have been—didn't make it easier.” –Kele Moon

∞

Sam barely managed to get by for the first three years. Studying wasn’t the issue; he could concentrate in his classes, take his notes, do his research. The endless hours of pouring over books with cracked spines under the watchful eye of his father had helped him prepare for the likes of reviewing old case files. That wasn’t the problem.

It was when Sam finally had a moment to breathe, when he could sit back from his desk, put his pen down and massage the cramp that was twinging in the muscle between his thumb and his forefinger that it really hit him. How deep the jagged, gaping hole in his chest really was, a bottomless pit of loss and worry and pain. How he had been the one to put it there. He had been the one to run away, to put thousands of miles between him and the one thing he knows he could never have.

It was when thoughts like these arose that Sam had to find something to distract himself, because if he sat there, really sat there and processed the one decision he was living to regret, he knew he would drive himself insane.

First, he took up running. Miles of pavement beneath his sneakers, just him and the light of dawn breaking over the horizon in washes of pink and gold as his feet slapped cement and his hoodie kept the foggy chill of the morning off his skin. He had to put earphones on and blast music mindlessly through his MP3 player because if he let the silence envelop him, the thoughts would come back.

Soon, it became too routine, too easy to fall into autopilot and drown the music out as he passed by the same trees, the same houses, the same buildings, and somehow Dean managed to nudge his way into the back door of Sam’s mind: the way he used to play with the hair at the back of Sam’s neck, the way he’d scooped Sam up and over his shoulder to be able to toss him into the lake they stayed at for a short time the summer that Sam turned nine, the way his breath felt against Sam’s lips in the hospital when the poltergeist had almost got both of them, hot and harsh and alive. The way Sam wanted to know what the inside of Dean’s mouth tasted like. Yeah. Running wasn’t working anymore.

Sam took to a different kind of distraction. He started hitting local bars, by himself, and decided that vodka would be his drink of choice because whiskey was off-limits. Can’t have anything that reminded him of calloused hands and the smell of gun oil. At first it was girls, ones who were impressed by his height and the way his shoulders strained the material of his t-shirt, ones who ran their fingers down his chest and laughed in his ear, whispering promises through red lipstick and a finger through his belt loops. Times like those were when Sam appreciated having a single bedroom on campus so he didn’t have to worry about kicking out a roommate for an hour and a half before sending his latest visitor back into the night with a flush in her cheeks.

What Sam hadn’t expected was for him to get bored. How does a guy get bored when he’s getting laid? It got to the point where it was a chore, having to throw on a smirk and making the look in his eyes inviting enough to draw in the newest girl.

He’s not really sure how it happened, but one night, he was talking to a sweet, little brunette majoring in Business and Accounting when someone slid into the stool to Sam’s right. Turning to see who had sat next to him was more of a reflex than anything, but Sam practically did a double take when his eyes ran up and down the length of his neighbor. The guy was built, but not overly so, had hair gelled to the point of being bulletproof and had eyes so green that it made Sam’s stomach drop. It was only fifteen minutes later that Sam dragged him into the bathroom of the bar, fell to his knees and fought with the dude’s belt buckle. It was the first time Sam had ever touched a dick that wasn’t his own, but apparently he was a natural at giving head because the guy was coming down Sam’s throat with a hoarse yell and a yank of Sam’s hair in only a few short minutes. Sam never got the guy’s name.

It became his new hobby: find a bar, find a guy, get twenty minutes of action, and repeat. It was like he was trying to set his own personal record of how many men he could seduce in a four hour period between ten and two. While he did basically everything else, Sam never let it get to the point of actual sex. After all, they usually ended up in the bar's bathroom or sometimes the back alley, but most of the time, it just didn't feel right.

Sam didn’t think anything of the fact that the hair he whispered praises into was always dirty blonde or that the eyes he demanded be kept open as he was stroking them to climax were always a deep bottle green.

He should have expected it, coming across these same guys on campus, meeting their stares across the quad for a few awkward seconds before they both continued on their way. It wasn’t a huge deal to him, but when he started to run into a guy he’d hooked up with at least once or twice a day, he figured he’d need to extend his radius for bars beyond the ones near school.

It was the end of third year that he had decided this and was willing to start to venture further to find newer conquests. Not that he couldn’t have got with some of his past ones, many of whom tried to reach out and ask for round two. He just didn't want to. Something was always…off. Didn’t sit right, didn’t quite fill that hole in his gut that seemed to be stretched larger and larger with each passing day.

Honestly, Sam never expected a girl to be the one to start sewing the edges of his wound together so he could begin to heal. But there she was, Jessica Moore, bouncing up to him at one of his local haunts with a big grin, an unforgettable dimple and hair the color of honey. She asked _him_ out, which was probably what both threw him off and made him intrigued. She had no shame, just grabbed his hand, scrawled her phone number across his palm, and let him know she was free after 8 on Tuesday night. Needless to say, he met her after 8 on Tuesday night.

So he stopped scouring the bars for his usual form of relief in shorter, stocky guys who gave a lot of lip and had a tendency for dirty talk and came to appreciate Jess in all of her excitable blonde glory. She became distraction enough, drawing his mind away from the hurt in his heart and the thoughts in his head.

He was able to be happy.

They moved in together three months into their relationship and spent the summer working day jobs, Sam at the university library and Jess at a cafe just down the street, and were able to come back to each other, homecooked meals and a sense of home. It was something Sam had never thought he would ever get to have.

Now Sam’s used to it, watching Jess get dressed in the morning, making her breakfast, renting movies for Saturday nights with her tucked under his arm on their couch. It’s his new normal. It’s how he keeps himself sane, how he represses the feelings that once surged to the surface every night at ten in anticipation of his routine bar crawl, how he heals himself, letting Jess’s hands on his body soothe the hole in his chest.

It’s Halloween in his fourth and final year when Sam hears someone break into their apartment. He’s downstairs in a second, body vibrating in its want to take the intruder down. It’s been too long since he has really been able to stretch his muscles the way he used to when he sparred with Dean. He attacks the man, because it is a man, shorter and broad shouldered and not-so-subtly rifling through Sam's cabinets, and is surprised to find he fights back. Sam's offensive blows are blocked with ease and it takes him by surprise when he is knocked down onto his back, losing the air in his lungs.

When the moonlight cutting in through his window highlights the planes of his brother's face in a silver sheen, Sam forgets how to breathe altogether. Dean. _Dean_.

"Whoa. Easy, tiger." His big brother is grinning down at Sam like the Cheshire Cat, all knowing and smug and completely, infuriatingly Dean. Sam's body is screaming for air so he lets his autonomic functions kick in and inflate his chest with the oxygen he desperately needs.

"Dean?" Sam croaks out, shifting where Dean's pinning him to the floor. Dean's body is draped along the length of Sam's and his weight is crushing Sam's legs into numbness but this hole, this fucking hole that Jess has been helping Sam paint over, it's ripping open again from the mere sight of Dean's face hovering inches away from Sam's, especially when Dean opens his mouth to let out a little laugh. The panicked rush of heat flooding Sam’s body flares hotter when Sam realizes Dean has a tight grip on the wrist of the hand Sam is shoving up into Dean’s chest. Drawing in more air to prevent his chest from collapsing in on itself, Sam manages to say, “You scared the crap out of me!”

“That’s ‘cause you’re out of practice.” Dean replies easily, his eyes glinting like green sea glass held up against the night sky. They’re roaming over Sam’s face, drinking him in just as deeply as Sam is drinking in Dean. It’s too much, too overwhelming with his body laid tight into Sam’s, so Sam uses the taunt as a reason to dig his heel into Dean’s back, yank Dean’s hand and flip their positions.

Stupid, Sam’s fucking stupid, this is even worse, having his legs bracketed around his brother, who is now completely bathed in the light of the moon. It’s catching every sharp angle of his jaw and nose and cheekbones and Sam can’t help tilting forward just a bit before catching himself.

“Or not.” Dean manages to grunt as he wriggles under Sam’s grip. He taps twice on Sam’s hand pushing him into the floor, _I’m out_ , before voicing the same message, “Get off of me.”

Sam tries to remember how to work his legs, thank God they decide to listen to him and don’t give out when he hauls them both to their feet. There’s a moment there, where they both are close enough that their chests could brush if they both took a deep breath at the same time, where their eyes stay caught in the other’s as if their gazes won’t break for anything in the world, where Sam has to physically restrain himself and curl his hands into fists to stop them from inching forward to the zipper of his brother’s pants. Okay, so maybe those guys at the bars were a replacement for somebody.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam’s wits are slowly coming back to him, the words slipping off his tongue before he can judge whether or not they sound harsh and uninviting. Apparently they do because he can see a flicker of hurt dance across Dean’s features before the smarmy grin is back.

“Well I was looking for a beer.” Dean claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, sparks exploding from his fingertips to numb Sam’s arm. He wonders if he’ll ever get feeling in it again.

“What the hell are you doing _here_?” Sam repeats, flexing the hand of the arm Dean incapacitated with his mere touch open and closed until his body decides to get the muscles back in working order.

Dean’s mouth twists, his happy-go-lucky mask falling away to expose himself to Sam in the most vulnerable way; worry etching his lips down into a frown and lines into his forehead.

“Okay. Alright, we gotta talk.”

Sam wishes his stomach wasn’t dropping past his feet and six feet into the earth, but there it goes. Oh God.

“Uh...the phone?” Sam forces out with a bit of sarcasm to hide the fear that has started prickling under his skin.

Dean’s mask slips back down as he throws Sam a look, raising his eyebrow.

“If I’d’a called, would you have picked up?”

Sam doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to that. But then Jess walks in, beautiful and sleepy eyed and in her underwear, and Dean’s sauntering over to tell her how he _loves_ the Smurfs, fuck you, Dean, before claiming he needs Sam alone. No can do, so Sam stands next to his girlfriend and says just that.

Dean drops all pretenses when he looks Sam dead in the face and says, "Dad's been on a _hunting_ trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

Well. That changes everything.

They bicker, Dean guilt trips him, Dean also makes a valid point and promises to get him back by Monday for his interview. Sam convinces himself that the reason he's going is to get Dean off his back and not because of the look on Dean's face when he said he could do this alone but didn't want to.

Falling back on the road and back into their routine hurts. It's too easy but it's edged with small shards of glass memories. Sam listens to the Lego pieces rattling in the radiator, remembers that time he spilled his Coke on the floor and Dean made him scrub it out on his hands and knees, feels the weight of his brother on the other end of the single long leather seat to his left like during those summers when they rolled down the windows and let the wind carry them for miles. All of them pricking at his skin and drawing blood to the surface to pool and itch and burn with whispers, _You left this, you left him_ , and he has to fight back with gritted teeth and swear up and down that he had gone to Stanford for good reasons, dammit, he'd left so he could save them, save what they had.

"So. Jessica, huh?"

Sam closes his eyes and lets his head thunk against his window, the glass vibrating against his skin as the Impala eats up black asphalt beneath them. He doesn't want to talk about her. Not now. Not with Dean. Not when Sam needed her to fill the void that Dean had left behind.

"Dean. Shut up. Please."

"What, I can't ask my little brother how he managed to catch a girl that hot?" Dean's voice is light but, because Sam knows Dean, knows him so fucking well, Sam can hear the strain in Dean's vowels, cutting them a pitch too high for his teasing to be entirely genuine.

Sam's too tired to attempt to think about what that could mean.

When they pull up to the bridge swarming with cops and Dean tosses a fake U.S. Marshal badge into his lap, Sam's heart sinks. The spike of fear that always nestled high in his chest when Sam held a fake form of identification is back as he forces himself up and out of the car. The cops barely buy it and the sheriff definitely doesn't, but they get enough information to know it's a small town where everyone is friends with everyone.

They find Troy’s girlfriend, Amy, plastering up signs with her friend in town. Distress lines her face, worry plain in her eyes. It ages her, marks her as someone much older than a twenty-something year old.

Dean has to open his stupid, fat mouth before Sam can come up with a cover story for why they're inquiring about the girl's boyfriend.

"We're his uncles. I'm Dean, this is Sammy." Dean offers smoothly, a sympathetic look working over the angles of his face. Sam quickly forces a sad smile onto his own so he doesn't shoot an irritated glare at his brother instead. It’s Sam.

"He never mentioned you to me." Amy says quietly, her eyes moving between the two of them before a gentle quirk of her lips draws up the corners of her mouth. "And you look a little young to be his uncles. How long have you been together?"

Sam's stomach bottoms out and he's raising a hand to wave in front of his chest to accompany his vehement denial that they're his uncles by marriage, Jesus, no, except Dean's entangled his fingers with Sam's and is squeezing it tight before bringing their joined hands down to their sides.

"High school sweethearts," Dean says, syrupy sweet and convincing. Sam grits his teeth and sucks in a deep breath through his nose before pushing an even bigger fake smile across his mouth. "We're not around much, we're up in Modesto. But we're just so worried about Troy. Would you mind sitting down with us, tell us what happened the last time you two talked?"

Amy and her friend Rachel, who had appeared at her side only a moment ago, both concede and lead the way into the diner across the street. Sam crushes Dean's fingers hard enough to make Dean hiss and try to jerk away.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sam growls under his breath.

"Being resourceful," Dean snaps back quietly, grinning briefly at the girls as they look over their shoulders at the two of them before they turn back around. "Two gay uncles looking for their favorite lost nephew? Tell me you had a better cover story than that."

Sam presses his lips together in a tight line and resigns himself to taking distinct pleasure in grinding the delicate bones in Dean's hand against each other. He most definitely is not enjoying the feeling of Dean's palm sliding against his own.

The girls think it's the cutest thing ever when he and Dean slide into the same side of the booth and give them knowing smiles when Sam and Dean accidentally ask the same question at the exact same time after Rachel hints at a rumor of a legend. Honestly Sam just wants to get the hell out of this diner as soon as possible so he doesn't have time to sit and think about the fact that Dean willingly offered the story that they were married to these girls.

"You said you're from Modesto?" Amy asks, leaning forward over the table. It's obvious she wants a break from talking about Troy and the story Rachel brought up, but Sam resents her a bit for turning the attention back to his and Dean's 'relationship'.

"Yep," Dean offers, slinging an arm around the top of Sam's shoulders. The heavy weight and subsequent warmth that seeps into Sam through his jacket and shirt cuts his breathing down into shallow, short puffs. "Born and raised."

"That's cute." Rachel is raking her eyes up and down the front of Dean's chest and suddenly Sam finds his arm reaching over under the table to curl his fingers just above Dean's knee. Dean jerks a bit in surprise, leg muscles tensing under Sam's grip as he turns to look at Sam's profile. Sam doesn't meet his eyes, just smiles directly at Rachel. He wonders if the neon sign flashing _Mine!_ between them both is big enough to see.

She returns his gaze evenly, but for a hint of doubt creeping into her eyes. Sam realizes she must have not believed their little ruse, and it makes him want to try even harder to prove that he and his brother are a couple. Sam doesn't want to think about how fucked up his last thought is.

Whatever the case, he knows he needs to be subtle. They'll be see-through if he tries too hard, so he just lets himself settle back under Dean's arm, just like when they used to watch movies on Friday nights on cramped and saggy couches. Sam feels Dean's hand skim the top of his shoulder, fingers soft, and he can't help it when his own shift a bit higher up Dean's thigh. His heart begins to collapse in on itself like a dying star in the dark universe of his chest when Dean's leg opens at his touch, scooting closer to knock their knees together. Sam can't help it; his head is turning to meet Dean's eyes and they're back in this lock, this steel trap of each other's irises as something sparks in the air between them and hovers like an invisible barrier in the inches between their faces.

God only knows how long this moment lasted because the next thing Sam hears is the girls excusing themselves, _We'll just leave you two alone_ , as they slide out of the booth. Sam barely manages to force out his thank you to them for answering their questions before they're gone and he's left with a handful of his brother's upper leg and a possessive weight across the top of his back. With Dean being Dean, Sam expects him to back off the moment the girls are out of sight or try to pick up the waitress who is currently collecting the dirty dishes from their table. But here he is, still holding Sam tight against his side, still flicking his eyes between both of Sam's like he's searching for something. Or maybe because he's found something. Either way, Sam needs to get the fuck out of this booth before he closes those three inches between their faces and drives Dean away for good.

"So," Sam's voice cracks as it leaves his throat and he watches Dean's eyes slip down to his mouth. He forces the rest of his sentence out before he spontaneously combusts right there on the plastic seat. "Public library then?"

Four heartbeats later and Dean's nodding, his arm retracting back to his side. Sam unlocks his grip and drags his hand back to his hoodie pocket, relishing the few seconds of rough denim against the pads of his fingertips. The shiver that passes through Dean's body as he stands is probably due to him passing underneath the fan whirling above their heads.

So they hit the library, making a beeline for the monitors to search up the old legend Amy and Rachel had told them about. Dean's on the computer and tapping furiously at the keyboard and successfully pulling up shit-all on the girl they’re looking for. Sam's getting tired of watching him run around in the very narrow box in his mind, so he takes matters into his own hands and shoves Dean's chair to the side. Taking his place in front of the screen, Sam types out his idea, fingers punching in the plastic keys.

"Dude! You're such a control freak!" Dean complains, slapping Sam's arm.

Ignoring him, Sam pulls up an article that gives them the name and story of the woman who jumped off the bridge. After agreeing that their best bet was to check out the bridge again, Sam prints off a copy of the article and they stand up to make their way through an aisle of book stacks to get to the front door. Sam walks ahead of Dean and can't help but lift his fingers to dance along the rows of hard and worn spines of the plethora of books lining the shelves to his left. It reminds him of the Stanford library, how he felt at home surrounded by musty paper and faded ink.

Sam let himself go too far into his head because the next thing he knows, he's being hauled back by the collar of his jacket to avoid running head-on into a group of students passing through the aisle perpendicular to the one they're in. Sam stumbles backwards at the sudden change in balance, hands flying out to catch himself, one landing on the metal shelves at his side and the other catching the front of his brother's shirt. This yanks Dean forward and he grunts as he tries to keep upright by reaching past Sam's chest to grab hold of the same shelf Sam's got. Somehow, Dean's nose is catching on Sam's cheek and Sam's turning his head and parting his lips to breathe or speak or something, except he can't anymore because Dean's mouth skimming his and now his entire body is on fire.

It nearly makes Sam's heart stop, the way Dean’s bottom lip pushes into the space between both of his, the way they both surge forward to crush away any sliver of air left between them. Sam’s hand is fisting in the front of Dean’s shirt so hard that it’s never going to go back to its original shape, and maybe he’s using his grip to keep his brother _rightthere_ against him or maybe he’s just holding on for dear life because bright spots are dancing across the backs of his eyelids, even though he can’t remember closing them. Sam loses all train of thought when the pressure of Dean’s mouth on his increases to bruising force, his head spinning as he sucks in a trembling breath through his nose. Dean's mouth opens to gust out a harsh exhale and it sends a wave of goosebumps rolling down the length of Sam's body, which still hasn't functioned well enough to stand up straight from where he's leaning against the bookshelf.

All at once, Sam is hit with the realization that he is kissing his brother, that Dean is kissing him back, the word _incest_ is blaring across his mind, and before he knows what's happening, his fist in Dean's shirt is opening to shove him away, hard. Dean trips and barely manages to stay upright as he catches himself on the shelves on the opposite side of the aisle they're in, eyes wide and blown out and confused. Sam gets his feet under him and stands up, turning away from Dean to place a hand over his tingling mouth. That didn’t just happen.

The worst part isn't when Dean walks away a minute later, his hunched leather-clad shoulders disappearing around the corner to go out to the car. No, the worst part comes when Sam is getting his breath back and is running his fingers over his swollen lips. The worst part comes when Sam closes his eyes and prods at the gaping hole that has sat in his chest for years with the hopes of finding that it's been replaced with a beating heart. Instead of a hole, he finds a canyon, now running the length of his torso, jagged and dark and carving down into the deepest parts of himself. How stupid of him to think that getting a glimpse of what he always wanted would make him feel better. Since when has the fleeting taste of a dream come true ever ended in anything other than pain?

They don't talk during the drive to Sylvania Bridge. Dean doesn't even turn on his music. The silence is so suffocating that Sam has to roll down his window an inch or two to let the night air wash into the front seat in hopes that he can gain some semblance of relief. It doesn't work.

When they finally arrive, Dean steps out and falls back into his usual self, pushing past the awkwardness and pretending that everything is normal as he comments on how this is where Constance took the swan dive. Typical. And a huge relief, because Sam can steer the topic to Dad. Then it isn't a relief because Dean's scowling around the words _You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?_ , yes he fucking is because he can't be in this life and he can't be around his brother. Both are dangerous in two very different ways. Then Sam's snapping at Dean, _Mom's gone, and she isn't coming back_ , and Sam is slammed into the metal bridgework, his spine protesting as it grinds into the cold steel with Dean's hands shoving hard into his collarbone. They're too close again and Sam can see in Dean's eyes that he knows it, that he also is aware of the warning signs bright and bold in the space between them.

"Don't talk about her like that." Dean growls before jerking away. Sam's never seen this side of his brother, the one fiercely protective of the mother he never knew. It makes him ache all over.

Constance is what breaks their attention away from each other, spreading her arms and falling off the bridge with a dramatic flare of her white dress, and then decides to possess the Impala to try to run them over. So they jump and Dean hits the water as Sam dangles from the edge of the bridge. This case is really starting to piss Sam off.

It's a relief when they find Dad's motel room, as cluttered and dirty as it is, because it means they're closer to finding him and it means that Sam is even closer to going back home to his girlfriend whom he loves, thinks he loves, probably loves, shut up, Sam. His thoughts keep drifting to the way Dean’s face flared with such next-level hurt when Sam mentioned Mom, and he knows he wasn’t being fair. He’d just said it to get back at Dean for even trying to imply that Sam was never really gonna get out of this life.

“What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad,” Sam starts just as Dean starts to head into the bathroom to wash off all traces of the river. Dean turns, looks him dead in the eye. It makes it harder to continue, but Sam manages. “I’m sorry-”

Dean ducks his head a bit before raising his hand and giving Sam a wry smile.

“No chick flick moments.”

Sam’s never been happier to forgive and forget.

But, as is the Winchester way, things never go as they expect, so Sam's cell starts blaring with the ringtone he's saved for Dean's number and he looks out the window to find his brother grinning heartily at a pair of cops coming his way. Son of a bitch. He barely manages to fit through the bathroom window, his shoulders protesting as he forces them through the narrow opening, before landing on the ground outside. He cuts around the back of the motel to hide out of sight. He can hear Dean getting arrested, the sound of his body being slammed against the hood of the Impala echoing in Sam’s ears.

This certainly puts a damper on their plans.

Sam takes matters into his own hands, waits until Dean and the cops are gone before searching around the tires of Dean’s car to find that, thank God, Dean had dropped the keys and kicked them into the dirt for Sam to find. If Sam had been forced to hotwire the Impala, Dean would personally see to it that Sam never breathed right again.

Tracking down Constance’s husband in a dingy scrap yard wasn’t hard. He confirms that Dad’s been around, three or four days ago, which makes Sam feel better. They’re not too far behind him then. Sam can’t help but start to describe the legend of women in white, his eyes skimming Mr. Welch’s suddenly pale face in the fading sunlight. Sam knows he’s hit a nerve when the man starts trembling and vehemently denying that Constance would ever hurt her own children. Poor guy.

Sam’s back on the highway when he calls the police to report gunshots so the police would get off their asses and Dean could give them the slip. Sam hopes he gets the message, even after all the years they spent apart. His cell starts ringing in his back pocket, so he fishes it out and smiles when he hears Dean’s voice.

“Fake 911 phone call, Sammy? I dunno, that’s pretty illegal.”

“You’re welcome.” Sam scoffs a laugh, one hand easy on the wheel as he keeps the Impala straight on the darkened road ahead of him.

“Listen, we gotta talk.”

Sam swallows past the lump in his throat and says only what Dean needs to hear about what he found out.

“Tell me about it. So the husband was unfaithful. We _are_ dealing with a woman in white and she’s buried behind her old house, which would have been Dad’s next stop-”

“Sammy, would you shut up for a second?” Dean’s voice cuts into Sam’s hearing, insistent and serious.

Sam adjusts the phone closer to his ear, his fingers shaking a bit as fear starts to swirl deep in his stomach. Oh God. Just keep talking, maybe Dean won’t bring it up, just keep talking.

“I just can’t figure out why he hasn’t burned the corpse yet-” Sam pushes onward before Dean cuts him off a second time.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s gone. Dad left Jericho.”

Sam releases a heavy breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding in, his forehead furrowing in confusion. Why the hell would Dad leave? It’s not like him to ditch a case, especially not one as big a deal as a woman in white.

“What? How do you know?”

“I’ve got his journal.” Sam can hear the worry lacing the edge of Dean’s words. They both know that this, whatever it is, it’s something serious.  

“He doesn’t go anywhere without that thing.” Sam’s speaking lower now, his mind churning as he tries to figure out what would prompt their father to leave a case half-finished and dangling. John, the man who always preached about saving lives no matter the cost, skipping town?

“Yeah, well, he did this time.”

“What’s it say?”

“Eh, same old ex-Marine crap when he wants to let us know where he’s going.”

“Coordinates.” Sam nods to himself, checks his rearview mirror out of habit. “Where to?”

“I’m not sure yet.” The sigh is evident in Dean’s tone, even if he doesn’t let it out.

Sam shakes his head now, tapping a finger against the curve of the steering wheel as he lets his eyes drift to the side of the road.

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam barely manages to get his question out before his gaze catches on the dark haired woman standing in the path of the Impala. A gasp tears out of his throat as he drops his cell and slams on the brakes, tires squealing as the car finally jolts to a stop. Sam’s breathing heavily, his heart pounding hard enough to crack a rib as he white-knuckles the wheel with both hands.

The air is suddenly cooler, a chill creeping down the back of Sam’s neck like a breath of winter wind.

“Take me home.”

Sam looks up in the rear view mirror and finds Constance lounging in the backseat like she owns the thing, her eyes dark and demanding as they hold his in the reflection. Sam squeezes the wheel tighter beneath his fingers and forces himself to stare back.

“Take me _home_.” Constance insists, her dark hair and eyes standing out against the smooth paleness of her skin and the ghostly white of her dress. She was beautiful once.

“No.” Sam says firmly, still keeping his eyes locked with hers in the rearview. He watches her jaw clench and hears the lock on his door shoot down before he sees it. Turning, he struggles to force it back up so he can get out, c’mon Sam, it’s a fucking door lock, but no dice, so he reaches for the passenger side only to see that one go down too. Next thing he knows, the car is shooting forward on its own, an invisible foot pushing the gas pedal down to drag Sam and Constance closer and closer to her old home. It doesn’t take long for them to pull in front of the decrepit building, the wood falling apart and the windows yawning like the dark, open eyes of a rotting skull. Sam’s struggling to stay calm as he finds her eyes once more in the backseat.

“Don’t do this.” He says it evenly, so it isn’t a beg or a plead, just a statement for her to reconsider ripping his heart from his chest.

Constance’s gaze slides away to find the home through the windshield, anguish pulling down the corners of her eyes and mouth as she practically sighs out, “I can never go home.”

It all clicks into Sam’s head, the tinge of fear on her features, why she’s staying in the backseat, what she did in that house.

“You’re scared to go home.” He realizes out loud, turning in his seat to face the woman. Except she’s not there, she’s gone, what the hell, and suddenly his arm is pinned to the back of the passenger seat where she’s suddenly appeared. It only takes a matter of seconds for her to straddle Sam in the driver’s seat, clambering onto his lap and chilling his skin with her hands on his chest.

“Hold me. I’m so cold.” Constance sighs.

“You can’t kill me,” Sam grits out through his teeth. “I’m not unfaithful.”

“Yes, you are.” Constance shushes him, a single cold finger pressing into Sam’s mouth as a slow, knowing smile crosses her flickering features. Sam’s heart drops like a stone. “In both the mind and the heart. You’ve never belonged to her.” Constance turns her head to look down at Sam, something sad in her eyes. “Always thinking of someone else.”

Sam can barely hear her over the rushing of blood in his ears as he remembers what the shape of Dean’s lips against his felt like only a few hours earlier.

Constance’s form flickers again, and a horrific face shatters the illusion of an innocent woman as she hovers over him before it reverts back to her human face.

“Oh,” she breathes in realization, fingers drawing into claws over his heart. It’s then that Sam knows she can sense his guilt, that he’s just signed his one way ticket to hell. “Unfaithful in the worst way.”

Constance drops forward, her mouth skimming the shell of Sam’s ear. He tries to cringe away but suddenly her other hand is digging into his hair to hold him still.

“Was it worth it?” she whispers, slow and taunting. Five spots on the skin around Sam’s heart start to sear and burn and he screams in pain, knowing it’s her hand reaching through his skin to get to his heart. “Tasting your brother?”

Sam doesn’t get a chance to even think of a reply because a gunshot is exploding through the driver’s side window, successive shots sounding off one after the other for several heartbeats until the burning on Sam's chest disappears and he can finally wheeze in a breath. Sam doesn't have to look to see who it is, he could sense his brother from miles away, so instead he starts the Impala, sends a mental apology to both Dean and the car, and guns it through the side of the house. 

 ****Dean's shouting and chasing after him, pulling Sam out of the wreckage to pat him down, hands hot as they search for any wounds. Sam only gets a moment to try to gather himself before a bureau is screeching across old wood to pin him and Dean to the side of the Impala. Before Constance has a chance to come closer, the lights around them start to flicker and a gush of water floods from the top of the staircase in front of them. Sam can only watch, open-mouthed, as two children descend to wrap their arms around their mother. Energy surges around them as Constance screams, her voice high with fear, and then they're gone, melted into a puddle on the rotting floor.

Heaving the bureau away from their legs, Sam and Dean step closer to where Constance and her children disintegrated. Sam's still feeling lightheaded from his close cut with death and the memory of Dean's shirt in his fist. Dean starts to talk but Sam can't hear it. Something is making him turn towards his brother, fingers reaching to slide up his jaw, tilt his head at just the right angle, close the distance. 

Their second kiss is like an explosion, every feeling that has been simmering and building beneath their skin for years finally breaking free through their mouths and tongues. They kiss like a fight that neither will win, a continuous hot tangle of teeth and tongues and desperation, hands grasping hair and skin as if it's their last moment on earth. Sam has never experienced anything like it and he knows he never will again. 

Even when they break apart, they remain close, foreheads tight against the other's as they inhale each other's exhales. Just like all those years ago in the hospital, the moment when Sam had decided he needed to leave so he wouldn't have a chance to shatter their relationship beyond repair. But Dean is here and he's nudging his nose into Sam's and his fingers are shaking against Sam's cheek. Sam can't begin to understand whether this is the beginning of something or the end.

It hurts to see the disappointment on Dean's face when he drops Sam off in front of his apartment, but he needs space, he needs time, he needs Jess. With a wave of his hand as Dean drives down the road, he can feel in the deep canyon in his chest that this isn't going to be another long absence without his brother. Climbing the stairs to his and Jess's room, he has to fight against the growing weight of his heart that seems to be determined to drag him to the ground with everything he's feeling right now.

Sam is going to hell. He's sinned.

So when Jessica explodes into flames above him, he really shouldn't have been surprised that God has taken his hope and his future away with the same fire that will consume his soul.


	3. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season one with a twist.

“Nobody’s fearless. We all have something we’re afraid of losing.” –Jerico Silvers

∞

Dean knew they had to atone for what they did. He just never thought it would be in the form of having to pull his little brother out of smoke and flame for a second time in his life.

Sam’s screaming; he didn’t do that when he was a baby. He’d just nestled into Dean’s arms and gripped the front of Dean’s pajamas and let his big brother carry him out and away from danger. Now Sam fights him every step of the way, lunging against Dean’s arms to try to get back into the bedroom as Dean manhandles him down the stairs, Christ, Sammy, you can’t, it’s an inferno, _please don’t burn_ , you can’t. They’re outside and Sam won’t stop staring at the tongues of flames licking the glass of his bedroom window.

Sam is limp now under Dean’s hands, lets Dean push him against the side of the Impala and stares off blankly while Dean indulges himself in giving Sam a once-over to make sure Sam isn’t hurt, isn’t burned, take care of Sammy. It’s when Dean’s eyes lift to try to meet his brother’s, when he sees a wall shuttering down over the pupils eating away at dulled hazel rings, that he realizes there is only so much he can do. There’s a limit to how much Dean can protect Sam from the horrors of their world, the one so full of darkness and evil that it’s suffocating sometimes, like a blanket over the mouth if that blanket was rotting and weighed down at the corners by stones more dangerous and ancient than mankind itself.

They drive.

For weeks, crisscrossing broken yellow lines and black asphalt. Dean is in the driver's seat and his company is a shell of who his brother used to be.

Sam has two switches, the first being generally unresponsive, avoiding food and sleep, and shying away from any touch Dean tries to offer, and the second being explosive, charging into the melee without a second thought of the consequences.

Dean can’t decide which one is worse.

Sam does alright on hunts, can muster enough energy to do the research, does just fine with shooting flares into wendigos and smashing mirrors with heavy objects. He offers input when Dean thinks he finds a lead on Dad before laying his forehead against the passenger window and falling silent for the rest of the drive.

Funny how Sam comes back to life when Dean just about loses his. Rookie mistake, not getting out of the water before he electrocutes the rawhead, tough son of a bitch that it is, and Dean can barely open his eyes to find that he’s in a hospital bed.

It seems fitting that Sam is the first thing he sees when his vision finally clears.

“What’re you crying for, you big girl?” Dean croaks as he sees the tracks of tears down the curve of Sam’s cheeks. Shouldn’t be there, not because of him.

“Dean.” It makes him ache, hearing the desperation and fear lacing the four simple letters in his name when it leaves his brother's tongue. It also makes him painfully aware of the way his blood is pumping too slow, sluggish and drugged through his veins, and the way that he feels the stutter-stop-stutter of the one muscle in his chest that should be working just fine now that Sam is by his side. Something’s wrong.

“You gonna tell me or do I have to buzz in a hot nurse?"

Sam's face twists at Dean's words. Okay, so jokes are out.

"Dean, the doctor-" Sam swallows hard. Dean tracks the bobbing of his Adam's apple, watches the tightening and releasing of muscles in Sam’s throat that Dean suddenly wants to feel under the pads of his fingertips. He clenches his fists in the thin, starched bedsheets covering his legs instead. "The voltage triggered a heart attack. Your heart... It's damaged."

"What, this old thing?" Dean hates the way his breath sounds as he sucks it into his lungs, rattling and whistling like he's on his deathbed. "'M fine, Sammy. Just a little too much excitement, that's all."

Watching his little brother's face crumple with grief makes it onto Dean's list of Top Ten Things He Never Wants To See Again.

It's quiet for too many minutes as Sam holds back more tears and tries to find his voice, and Dean struggles to count his breaths to keep his heartbeat low. Whenever it starts to beat too fast, so basically whenever he looks at Sam, Dean drags his eyes up to the ceiling and tries to count how many little holes are punched into one of the squares that makes up the grid above him.

"How long?" Dean says after he hits hole number 632 for the second time. He lost his place when he heard Sam's breath hitch a few minutes back.

"A few weeks," Sam manages to tell him in a thick voice. "Maybe a month."

Really? A fucking month? Dean lets his head fall back to hit the pillow below, his eyes closing as his heart starts to feebly punch his ribcage. With every beat, Dean repeats the same two words to the pathetic muscle, _fuck_ , _you_ , _fuck_ , _you_ , _fuck_ , _you_.

Sam is talking again, his tone low, but Dean can't focus. All he can hear is the delayed surging of blood in his ears and all he can do is try to remember what it was like to feel his heart beating strong and harsh, like after a hunt, like after kissing Sam, instead of weak and falling apart at the seams.

"-we still have options." The trail end of Sam's sentence overtakes Dean's heartbeats and jars Dean's eyes open to level his brother with a reserved stare.

"What options?" Dean says. He feels tired and achy, drained and cold. He’s fucking freezing. Can't feel his fingers. "Burial and cremation. And I know it's not easy, but I'm gonna die. And you can't stop it."

The Sam that Dean first woke up to, the one choked with tears and sorrow, is wiped away the moment he stands up straight against the doorframe of Dean's room. Determination sets his mouth in a thin line and a promise burns in his pupils as he holds Dean’s gaze, the dark circles digging into Dean’s chest to take away what little breath Dean has left.

“Watch me.”

The next few days, Dean is primarily left alone. Sam comes to visit, popping in for an hour or so at a time, listens to Dean bitch and whine about wanting a burger with fries and that Southern gravy they had once down in Georgia when they were ritually cleansing the haunted houses in Savannah, then leaves for longer and longer periods until Dean has to resort to watching daytime television. He’d rather get hit with ten thousand volts again than see another commercial with that fucking Snuggie bear.

It’s his third night alone and he can’t stand it anymore. His skin is itching from staying in one place too long and Sam hasn’t been in for at least twelve hours and Dean just wants to see Sam and his stupid hair that flips out above his ears, okay? Even though the kid needs a haircut, Dean likes the way the strands brush across Sam’s forehead. It makes him look young. It makes him look innocent, like he should be. Like Dean tried to keep him for as long as he could. Just one more thing Dean failed at to add to the ever-growing list trailing out of his back pocket.

Sam left Dean’s bag of clothes on the chair last time he was here since he knows how much Dean hates being in hospital garb. He has to pause for a few minutes after he swings his legs over the side of his bed to catch his breath but he makes it to his duffle eventually. Pawing through the mix of half dirty and half clean clothes, Dean’s fingers brush the soft material of the sweater he’s never pulled from the bottom of his bag. He’s kept it there for God knows how long, but he’s never worn it. Fuck it, he’s gonna die in three weeks anyway and he’s freezing his ass off, hasn’t felt warm since he triggered himself into impending heart failure. Shaking it loose from its confines, Dean tugs the hoodie over his head, sighing as the fuzzy inside covers the skin of his arms. Still not enough, but it’s better.

Apparently Dean can summon the energy to be charming enough for the receptionist to let him sign himself out and trudge his way through the front doors of the hospital without being shoved into a wheelchair. Dean’s surprised he remembers the name of the motel that Sam mentioned in passing that he was staying at, but at least he has something to give the driver. When they pull up into the parking lot, Dean fishes out a twenty from the side of his duffle and hands it over before opening his door.

It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time for Dean to climb out of the cab and hobble over to the wall just beside Sam's motel room. Breathing heavily, Dean lets his head fall back against the brick, his eyes slipping shut. Sweet fuck, he’d do anything to just go to sleep right here. But no, gotta get inside, need to be next to Sam for whatever time they have left together. Fuck this less than a month bullshit.

His knock is pathetic, more of a gentle punch to the thick wood, and it takes a moment for Sam to open the door. But God, is he a sight for sore eyes, even though it hasn’t even been a day since Dean saw him last. Dean's already damaged heart breaks a little more as he takes in the lines of stress on Sam's forehead and the half circles of purple nestled under Sam's eyes. Of course he hasn’t been sleeping.

"Dean?" Sam's arms are around him in a second, coating him with the warmth he’s been missing for too long. Dean can't help but lean into his little brother, who is ushering him into the room while peppering him with questions, how, why, what are you doing here, Jesus, you're thick, Sam.

Sam's hands are soft as they take his bag from him to drop it by the door and guide him to a chair near the beds to settle him in. Dean can feel them pause at his shoulder before tugging gently at the thick grey hood of the sweater he's wearing. The hairs at the back of Dean's neck stand up and he forces his eyes down to the floor.

"Is..." Sam trails off, his silence stretching for such an absurdly long time that Dean thinks, hopes, prays, he isn't going to finish the question he began. But there it is, Sam clears his throat and starts again, even softer this time. "Is this my hoodie?" The unspoken _is this the one I forgot to pack when I left for Stanford?_ stitches itself into the heavy material hugging Dean's arms and torso.

"Dunno." Dean grunts. He doesn't have to look up to see the look on Sam's face that says Dean is full of shit. They both know.  

Sam's fingers play with the hood, following the outer edge around to where it meets Dean's other shoulder. They lift from there, blunt nails scratching gently up Dean's neck and into the short hairs at the back of his head. Dean closes his eyes and presses the heel of his hand into the space just above his heart, which is banging obnoxiously against his ribcage just from his brother's fingers on his skin.

"What can I do for you?" Sam's voice floats to Dean's ears but he can barely hear it as Sam moves his palm over to settle on Dean's cheek, his skin hot and dry in contrast to Dean's, which is clammy and cold. He can't stop being cold.

"You can go get some sleep.” Dean moves his hand from his chest to push Sam away towards the bed, sacrificing his want of Sam’s touch for the need to get Sam some actual shut-eye. Kid’s working himself to death to find a cure that doesn’t exist.

Sam lets his arm fall back to his side for a moment before it’s back again, fidgeting with the sleeve of Dean’s, his, hoodie. It makes Dean think of all the times when Sam was young and wanted something, tugging at the hem of Dean's shirt, _Dean come play with me_ , _Dean can I go with you and Dad_ , _Dean read me another book_.

“You need to rest too.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Dean shrugs Sam off and he hears Sam’s breath catch. He makes himself meet Sam’s eyes only to see that they’re fixed on the hands Sam is using to manhandle Dean out of his chair. “Hey!” Dean protests feebly, batting his brother’s chest as Sam shuffles him into the space between the two queen beds.

“You know, this whole I-laugh-in-the-face-of-death thing? It's crap. I can see right through it.” Sam mutters under his breath as he bends around Dean and uses one hand to toss back the covers of the bed to their right.

Dean ignores that in favor of asking, “What’re you gonna do, Sammy, tuck me in and read me a bedtime story?”

Sam straightens, Jesus, Dean forgot how tall he was, and stares down his nose at Dean with an unreadable expression. They’re close. Too close. Dean can count the number of eyelashes framing Sam’s hazel eyes and sees the spot on Sam’s bottom lip where he’s been worrying it with his teeth.

“C’mon.” Sam grunts after a minute, his fingers yanking up at the bottom of Dean’s sweatshirt. Dean hisses and has to plant his hands on Sam’s shoulders to stop himself from keeling over as his heart tries to jump out of his skin.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean gasps and winces at the tightening in his chest. “Buy me dinner first.”

“Will you quit it?” Sam bursts out, hands wrapping around Dean’s wrists to shove Dean down onto the mattress. “Just let me take care of you, man!”

Dean really can’t breathe now and he wastes his exhale on a long stream of swear words as he frees a hand from Sam’s grip to roll over and grab the spot where his heart is pulling painfully, muscles spasming and feeling like they’re tearing themselves to shreds. Sam’s hovering over him, apologies washing over the back of Dean’s neck in puffs of warm air that Dean wants to curl into. Once he gathers himself enough to face his brother again, he finds Sam palming at his mouth, eyes wide and worried as they watch Dean lay back against the motel pillow.

“Stop throwing me around like a ragdoll,” Dean rasps before he kicks off his boots one at a time, each landing with a heavy thunk to the floor below. “And I’m fucking freezing so I’m not taking this off.”

Sam nods slowly, drops his hand to his thigh, his fingers digging into the denim nervously before he stands and starts flicking lights off. Dean kicks his way under the duvet and draws it up over his shoulders, fighting down a shiver that tries to shake his entire skeleton. He’s blowing pathetically on his hands which are cupped in front of his mouth when Sam slips out of his jeans and starts to climb into the other side of Dean’s bed.

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Dean’s voice cracks like a prepubescent teen and he grimaces as he shoves at Sam’s shoulder. “You and the rest of your Sasquatch-self get your own bed. This one’s taken.”

“Shut up, Dean.” Sam just sounds tired as he nudges Dean’s arm away and slides the rest of the way beneath the covers. Sam’s like a living, breathing space heater, warmth flooding the space under the sheets in mere moments as he settles in.

“Sam, seriously,” Dean continues to protest even as his traitorous hands inch forward to press against Sam’s side, oh, so that’s what it’s like to regain feeling in his frozen appendages, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have fingers. “If you roll over in your sleep you’re probably gonna suffocate me.”

“Good,” Sam says as he scooches closer, the front of his body heating Dean from head to toe. Dean’s hands are crushed between their chests now, fingers splayed wide near the collar of Sam’s t-shirt. “At least then I won’t have to hear you bitching the whole night.”

“I’m not bitching.” Dean mumbles into the corner of his pillow. He’s unable to lift his eyes to meet Sam’s, which are open and dancing around Dean’s face in a really annoying way. Dean’s trying to decide if this position is going to send him into cardiac arrest again, and apparently the answer is yes when Sam kicks his ankles open to slip his leg between both of Dean’s. He chokes, hands fisting in Sam’s shirt as he tries not to eat his own tongue.

“Just c’mere,” Sam whispers in the dark space between their faces, his arms reaching around to hug the curve of Dean’s back, pull him even closer into the heat of his body, and it feels so good to be warm again that Dean lets his face tuck into the place where Sam’s throat and shoulder meet. He has to count his inhales and exhales again to keep his heartrate down, it’s going into overdrive right now, in for three seconds, out for two, in for three seconds, out for two. Dean feels his expelled breaths break against Sam’s shirt and puff back into his face, the used air slowly clogging his throat, and he can’t help but decide that if he’s gonna suffocate then this would be a good way to go. “Jesus," Sam mutters into the top of Dean's head as Dean nudges his feet into Sam's calves and pushes his fingers onto the skin of Sam's neck. "You _are_ cold.”

“Told you.” Dean says into Sam’s collarbone.

A hand is tilting Dean’s face up and Dean sucks in fresh oxygen just in time for Sam to kiss it away. It’s barely a kiss at all, more of a skimming of mouth against mouth, but it still makes Dean’s lung seize hard enough to hurt. Dean can feel the part where Sam was gnawing at his bottom lip catch as it drags along his, and for whatever reason, it melts his bones into liquid and forces his heart to work that much harder to push blood and marrow through his veins.

As much as he wants this, _God does he want this_ , Dean can’t get the image of Sam, no, the shell of Sam, at his side in the Impala, drawn into himself and away from the world cruel enough to take another loved one away through fire and ash. It’s not like Dean ever expected this to happen again; he could read his brother like a book, knew that Sam blamed himself and what occurred between the two of them as at least part of the reason for losing Jess. So Dean breaks away, pushing his face into his pillow, hopes he can smother himself right then and there.

“Dean…” Sam’s mouth is ghosting his cheekbone, a whisper of a sin, and Dean tenses in response, his thighs clenching around the one Sam’s all but shoved between his. This is really, _really_ testing Dean’s ability to restrain himself.

“Sam, stop,” His words are muffled in the cheap fabric of his pillowcase, but they’re clear enough that his brother listens, lips pausing in their trail across Dean’s face. “You gotta stop.” The lips disappear.

It’s silent for a long time after that, the only sounds being the radiator clicking in the background and two sets of lungs breathing in and out at different intervals, Dean, shallow and short, Sam, long and deep. Dean can’t do this. Not right now, not with Sam just waking from the stupor he’s been in for months now. Not when he just got some semblance of his brother back. Dean silently resigns himself to not let this ever happen again. He needs to be there for Sam as a brother in these last few weeks, nothing more. Maybe it’s a selfish decision. Maybe Dean makes it because he doesn’t want to experience something as special and important and life-changing as Sam in all of his Sam-ness when Dean’s only going to be ripped away from him in less than a month.

When Dean finally turns his face back into fresh air to look at his brother again, he finds Sam mirroring his position, his hair splayed on his own pillow as his eyes roam Dean’s face. Dean becomes aware of Sam’s hand trailing up and down his spine, each fingertip leaving its own blazing trail down his back that curls deep into Dean’s body and keeps him warm.

“There’s a specialist. In Nebraska.”

Sam’s voice is low in the darkened room. Dean represses the urge to sigh and keeps holding Sam’s gaze, which is turning frantic now, pupils dilated in the shadows and searching Dean’s with a fervor that belongs only to Sam when he has something he _needs_ to say.

“Got a call from one of Dad’s contacts." Sam's hand moves up to rub the fabric of Dean's hood between his fingers. "He’s the real deal, Dean. He can save you.”

“Sam-” Skeptical doesn’t begin to cover the way Dean says his brother’s name, but Sam cuts him off quickly.

“Dean, can you just-” Sam sucks in a breath through his nose and puffs it out just as fast, his jaw working hard as he chews on his next words. Dean waits. “I can’t lose you, man.” Sam's voice breaks on his confession. The lump in Dean’s throat has grown to epic proportions, slowly cutting off his air as he watches tears threaten to spill down Sam’s cheeks.

“Jesus, Sammy.” Again with the crying. Damn bleeding heart, this kid. Dean worms his arms free from between them to loop low around Sam’s waist, ducking his head to push it underneath Sam’s chin as he pulls them tighter together. He tells himself that this is for Sam, not for him. “You’re not gonna let me die in peace, are you?”

Fingers card through the hair at the top of his skull, smoothing down Dean’s neck to rest on his back once more.

“I’m not gonna let you die, period.”

Dean lets himself fall asleep, warm and safe in his brother’s arms, because even if Sam can’t save him, at least he will have one good memory to take with him when he goes.

-

Sam was right. He didn't let Dean die, but he did let someone die _for_ Dean. It's even worse when Layla comes by after the reaper is released, when she takes his hands and looks into his soul with the gentlest of smiles touching her eyes and makes her peace with her fate. He could've helped her, _tried_ to help her by letting the reaper lay his gnarled hand on his head, but Sam, fucking _Sam_.

He means it when he says he will pray for her.

Sam won't stop touching him now, always reaching to brush his knuckles against Dean's knee or nudge their shoulders together or whatever the fuck else he can do to press some part of himself against Dean and it's driving him up a wall. The amount of times Dean has had to bat Sam away and snap _hands off the merchandise_ isn't funny anymore.

Dean doesn't understand it until he nearly loses Sam.

People are fucking insane. Dean's always thought the crap that he and his family hunt held all the crazy cards but, man, some humans are just plain fucked. Especially a possibly incestuous, backwater hillbilly family of four that happen to enjoy chasing other humans down for the thrill of the hunt.

Said hillbilly family has effectively managed to take one of the last things on this earth that Dean is willing to die to protect, and Dean gets careless, gets caught, gets tied up to a chair and branded with a white hot poker like he's some kind of cattle. He's still going to kill every last one of these sons of bitches, even that feral mini bitch.

The panic that floods his body when the psycho daddy instructs his son to shoot Sam in the cage bursts out of him in a roar that tears his throat open as he struggles against his restraints and makes a promise these fuckers don't want him to keep _, I will kill you ALL!_ They leave the little girl with him when the first son doesn't come back and Dean can't help but reach inside of himself and cup his hands around the small flame of hope that springs up in his chest; maybe the son was a bad shot, maybe Sam got out, maybe he isn't dead, maybe Dean won't have to eat his own gun after this, maybemaybemaybe.

He'll deny it to his dying day, but the moment Sam appears from around the corner of the kitchen, Dean lets out a sob of relief, Sammy, fuck, _Sammy_. The girl fights like a wildcat but Sam throws her in the closet and locks it fast.

Dean's breathing is beyond irregular as Sam drops to his knees to cut him free, his lungs trying to climb out of his throat in their attempt to suck in the air leaving Sam's mouth because he's breathing, he's alive, _Sammy_.

Dean should be embarrassed by how pathetic he sounds, repeating his baby brother's nickname over and over like a prayer, but he isn't, because if Sam was a religion, then maybe Dean would finally believe in God.

"I'm okay, Dean, I'm okay." Sam is panting as he leans down to cut the ropes holding down his ankles before sitting up straight to snap off the ones on his wrists.

The moment Dean is free, he lunges to his feet, dragging Sam up with him by the collar of his shirt with his one good arm. Dean can’t even spare himself a moment to assess whether Sam is not hurt or bleeding anywhere because he’s breaking his own rule, the one he laid out weeks ago that he planned to keep even though his heart wasn’t in tatters anymore. Dean gets his hand on the back of Sam's head and drags him down until their lips meet and that flame in Dean’s chest consumes them both. It isn’t pretty by any means, Dean bites Sam’s lip when Sam jostles his bad shoulder, their teeth clack together, their hands fumble to gain purchase until Sam gets both palms on Dean’s cheeks and just angles Dean right where he wants him, but it’s theirs. Dean has the smell of singed cotton and his own burnt flesh in his nose, but he has Sam beneath his palm, hairs damp with sweat curling between his fingers like vines, and he has Sam’s tongue in his mouth, just as hungry and needy as Dean’s.

This is when Dean understands. He knows now that when they get out of this rotting farmhouse, he’s not going to be able to stop touching Sam, just to assure himself that he’s really here, alive, safe, breathing, _here_ , hands in Sam’s hair, fingers on Sam’s neck, mouth on Sam’s mouth. Dean’s currently being smothered in an avalanche of all things Sam and he still wants more, wants to suffocate on Sam’s exhales and crumble to dust beneath Sam’s touch.

They only pull apart to gasp in fresh air and maybe because crazy mini bitch in the closet is clawing at the wood and screeching like a banshee. For someone so small, she’s sure got a pair of lungs on her.

Dean’s eyes are drawn away from the closet door and back to Sam’s when he feels his brother run his fingertips along the line of his bottom lip. Sam is staring down at Dean’s mouth as if it were a temple and he had come to pray. It makes Dean’s knees give out. Actually give out, he fucking collapses in Sam’s arms, of course Sam catches him and hauls him back up to stand, asking if he’s okay.

“Fine, Sammy,” Dean coughs, wrapping his hand gingerly around his shoulder to minimize the pain and stop it from being moved too much. “Think I’m about ready to get out of here.”

Sam helps Dean down the steps, mutters assurances as they step onto the uneven gravel road and meet the deputy as she emerges from the barn. They don’t pry when she says the father tried to escape and she had to kill him. Dean looks up at Sam and Sam looks down at Dean and it’s unspoken that if it were them, the man would still be alive, just so he could live out his worst nightmare under the blade of their knife.

The deputy lets them get a headstart on foot, and for a moment before they leave, Dean catches the question in her eye. The one he’s seen most of his life whenever an adult paused to take in him and his brother, the one that holds a thread of suspicion, of wondering if there is something _more_. When he was younger, Dean’s initial reaction was to grow even more protective, shielding Sam from the ugly thoughts that tried to creep in around them, taking the judgment of others on his own shoulders so Sam could remain bright-eyed and brilliantly Sam, not to be tainted by the ones who just don’t understand. But now Dean feels the weight of his own world already pressing down on him, Jessica’s death, Dad missing, taking care of Sam, and he’s tired of piling on anything else tossed his way that he doesn’t need to take. All Dean needs is Sam. All he’s ever needed is Sam.

So Dean worms his good arm around Sam’s waist, pushes his fingers around Sam’s side until he feels skin instead of t-shirt material, then dips below the waistband of Sam’s jeans to trace the outline of his hipbone. Sam twitches at the sudden touch but relaxes into Dean easily enough, like it's second nature. When the deputy’s eyes flash to the movement and widen slightly, Dean relaxes his face into an easy emile and a final thank you for letting them take off. It’s nice to see that the thread of suspicion has been wiped away to be replaced by a dawning understanding. Refreshing.

Dean doesn’t think about Hibbing again for a very long time.

-

Dean decides he doesn't like Chicago. Because in Chicago, there's a pretty girl with a sharp tongue throwing accusations at Dean as she implies that he's some sort of tyrant that drags his brother around the country by the hair on his head. So he buys a shot or three to chase away the memory of Sam grabbing his bag from the trunk and walking alone down that highway, then buys another two to recall the look on Sam's face when he appeared at Dean's side saying he stole a car and Dean had said _that's my boy_ , because fuck the sun, Sam could light up the whole fucking world with a smile like that. When Sam wants to stakeout Meg's place, Dean can roll with it. He's only half joking when he asks Sam if he's sitting in the car watching her. It's nice to know Sam remains so easily ruffled even after all these years, if his spluttering and protests are anything to go by. The feeling of jealousy clumping cold and hard in the pit of his stomach? Not so nice.

Dean decides he fucking hates Chicago. Because in Chicago, there are shadow demons and a pretty girl straddling his baby brother like she's about to take him for the ride of his life. Dean closes his eyes and focuses on trying to work his knife into his hands once he catches Meg's tongue slipping up the curve of Sam's ear.

He fucks up, makes a noise. Meg notices. Sam tries valiantly to get her attention back on him, but Sammy wears his heart on his sleeve and it's obvious by the way his eyes keep darting to Dean's face that all he cares about is getting Meg away from him. The weight of Meg's hands on his face makes Dean's stomach curdle but at least Sam's got himself free and obeys Dean's shout to get the altar. Before either of them have time to take another breath, Meg is being torn into by the daevaes and launched through the enormous glass window that spans the wall on the opposite side of the room. Sam cuts Dean’s ropes and together they stand in broken glass to look down at a broken body. Dean’s seen some pretty gruesome things in his life, but seeing Meg’s body twisted and bent beyond repair makes his stomach turn.

They don’t talk on the drive back to the motel. Dean can’t stop thinking about Meg saying Dad’s in town. If he was here, why didn’t he try to contact them earlier? Especially after they tried to reach him over and over again, when they went back to Lawrence, nothing, when Dean almost died, nothing. Dean had been about to kick the bucket and Dad couldn’t pick up a fucking phone. The leather of the steering wheel squeaks in protest as Dean’s knuckles tighten. No. He has a reason for not calling. He has to.

Casting a glance at his brother, Dean sees that Sam is also deep in his head, eyes unfocused and staring out the passenger window. The light of the lampposts swishing by outside catches the length of Sam’s neck in flashes of ugly yellow, highlighting the marks left behind from Meg’s teeth. Dean can taste bile in the back of his throat and he pushes the accelerator down harder.

Sam decides to lug up their bag of weapons, because he’s Sam and he’s stubborn, and it only serves to make a huge clatter of noise when it hits the ground as Dean shoves Sam’s back into their motel door with a loud thud. His hands are on Sam’s collar, yanking down the material of the shirt to press his mouth over the red blotches covering Sam’s skin, to make his own mark, to wipe away whatever trace that bitch left on his brother. Sam’s gasping Dean’s name into his hair as his hands shove up under Dean’s shirt, pawing across his stomach and around to the small of his back. His fingers dance hotly up the line of Dean's spine, encouraging Dean to step in even closer, a groan building in his chest as he feels the sharp jut of Sam's hipbone dig into his lower abdomen. _Mine_ , Dean thinks as he moves to another hickey and sucks hard, his lips tight and hot on the taut skin of Sam’s throat, _mine_.

Dean releases Sam’s shirt to fumble the key into the lock of their room, fuck, Dean doesn’t know where this is going but he can’t stop, not now that he's biting the soft place where Sam’s jaw meets his ear before soothing it with his tongue as he shoves the door open. Sam loses his balance, trips backwards out of reach and away from Dean's lips. With a disapproving noise, Dean open his eyes and grabs the front of Sam's shirt to try to keep them both upright. That’s when he sees the shadowed figure facing them from across the room. Dean’s grip tightens and he uses their stumbling momentum to swing Sam behind him in one quick movement, _take care of Sammy_ , his muscles tensing white hot with adrenaline as he readies himself to take on the intruder.

“Hey!" He manages to bark as the lights flicker on overhead, then he sees his father, shoulders hunched and a neutral expression on his face. Dean's mind goes blank as his feet lead him into John's arms. He closes his eyes as they hug, Dad's okay, Jesus, it's like he can fully breathe again now that he can feel his father alive and well under his own hands. Eventually Dean lets go of John so they can both turn to face Sam, who looks like a small child standing alone by the doorway.

"Hi Sam." John's smiling softly and Dean's heart dips as he hears the thickness in John's voice as he welcomes his youngest back into his arms. It's like the final two puzzle pieces clicking into each other, they're whole again, a family, no, Dean isn't fucking crying.

When they step away from each other, Sam sniffling and John clearing his throat, Dean can't stop darting his eyes between them, the familiar fear of an impending argument fluttering in his chest. Please, Sammy, let's just enjoy it, we found him, he's safe.

"You boys never stop bickering, do you?" John's words break into Dean's roiling thoughts and he cuts his eyes to his father, where John is gesturing at the open door and the forgotten duffle bag peeking around the corner of the frame.

John heard Dean shoving Sam into the door. Dean suddenly can't feel his body, a skittering numbness flooding every last inch of him from head to toe, does he know, son of a bitch, does he _know_? He probably resembles something of a fish with his mouth hanging open like a goddamn idiot, but Sam is there, offering _you know how physical Dean gets when you say anything bad about Metallica_ , before laughing and going to retrieve their weapons. Dean has enough sense to shut his gob before John turns back to him.

"Dad, it was a trap. I didn't know I'm sorry." Dean pushes his anxiety about him and Sam deep into the back of his mind as he focuses on Meg's words again.

"It's alright. I thought it might have been."

"Were you there?"

"Yeah, I got there just in time to see the girl take the swan dive." John eyes them both. "She was the bad guy, right?"

"Yessir." And it's like they're twelve and sixteen again, spines straight, affirmative sharp and clipped from their mouths when John asked a question.

"Good. Well it doesn't surprise me. It's tried to stop me before." John explains himself, if only a little bit, hinting at a way to kill the bastard responsible for collectively ruining their lives. Dean sees once more where Sam gets his stubbornness from when John refuses to let them help him in his quest to kill the demon just yet.  

That fluttering fear of an argument breaking out between John and Sam dissipates when they embrace again, both saying how it's been too long. Dean just watches on in awe and stupid schoolboy hope. They can't be with Dad now but soon, when Dad finds everything he needs, they can kill this thing together. As a family. Just like all those years ago, three pieces of a well oiled machine.

Then a daeva launches Dad clear across the room and gouges its claws into his chest. Dean yells, hoarse and scared, before he feels an invisible force sink into his shoulder and crush him into the wall. White hot pain sears into his cheek as sharp claws rake down his face. He tries to suck in breath to gather himself but he's yanked forward now to crash into something else and black spots spit across his vision. Christ, he can't tell up from down. Then Sammy yells to shut their eyes and Dean complies just in time for a blinding light erupt across his vision, turning the backs of his eyelids bright red. Dean pushes himself upright, find Sam, find Dad, Dad's closest, get him to his feet, where's Sam, Sam's stumbling behind them, weapon bag in hand, thank God for Sammy.

They're out in fresh air, gasping and panting, but they're out, and Sam's ready for all three of them to climb into the Impala. But Dean looks at John, stops him. His mind is still putting itself back together from when he smashed his head but he knows what Meg said. He knows that they are all each other's weak spot, that if they stick together they're just going to be a liability and an easy draw to get Dad right where the demon wants him. So he says as much, his heart twinging as Sam protests because damn if Dean isn't happy that Sam wants them together just as badly as he does. But they can't, and Dean can see it in Dad's eyes that he understands.

John climbs into his truck and they slide into the Impala. Dean waits for Dad to pick a direction so he can go the opposite way, pulling onto the highway and putting as much distance as he can between them and Chicago. An eternity would be too soon for Dean to ever want to be within a hundred miles of that fucking city.

Dean's right arm is lying limply at his side. His shoulder is hurting from where the daeva had wrenched it out of place and he can't keep his right hand on the wheel without feeling like he wants to pass out. He pretends not to notice that Sam stays curled into the passenger door, as far away as he can get from Dean's open palm.

-

Sarah is sex and brains on legs, Sam's obviously into her, and Dean can't stop himself from harassing his brother with the idea that maybe they can stick around for a bit longer after all this is said and done.

"Dude, enough already!" Sam snaps from his seat at the table in their room, his eyes flashing. Dean leans back on the bed and holds Sam's glare.

"What?" Dean says.

"What?" Sam's eyebrows shoot up, irritation evident in the set of his shoulders. "Ever since we got here, you've been trying to pimp me off to Sarah. Just back off, alright?"

"Well you like her, don't you?" Dean pushes, sitting up straight. Let it go, Dean, let it go, why are you pushing this, stop. "You like her, she likes you, you're both consenting adults-"

"What's the point, Dean? We'll just leave. We always leave."

"I'm not talking about marriage, Sam." Shut up, Dean.

Sam rounds on him even harder, standing now to stomp over to the side of Dean's bed.

"You know, I don't get it. Why do you even care if I hook up?"

Dean's agenda-pushing momentum falters at the sight of his brother so close to him and Dean huffs a breath as he slides down the bed to get up and put some space between them.

"'Cause then maybe you wouldn't be so cranky all the time-" Dean starts before he feels a grip tight on his wrist that turns him around on the spot. Sam is towering over him, expression unreadable as he holds Dean in place.

"Dean," Sam's tone is dead serious and it makes Dean's stomach twist high into his ribs. "Why do you care so much?"

"C'mon, man, it's not that big a deal," Dean scoffs, trying to pull his arm back to his side only to have Sam take a step forward into Dean's space to keep his hand on Dean's wrist. "Dude, lemme go."

Sam's eyes are probing and are climbing their way into Dean's soul as they always have, and Dean is really not down to get into the mess of talking about chick flick crap when, after all these years, Dean still can't put a name to exactly what it is he feels about Sam. The times that they have kissed, and Jesus, that should be a revolting thought, kissing your little brother, but it isn't, it's just laced with a sense of _this is right_ , _this is how it should be_ and that's what is scaring Dean shitless right now and that's why he needs Sam to have some semblance of normalcy, like dates and hookups with a hot brainy girl, even if it means losing Sam in the way that Dean wants him for the rest of his life because he'll realize he doesn't want whatever the fuck it is that keeps happening between the two of them.

Sam steps forward again and their chests are brushing now, they're so close. His hand loosens on Dean's wrist so he can slip it up past Dean's elbow and over his shoulder to brush the outside of Dean's jaw.

No. Dean's not going to be the reason Sam misses his chance with this girl. Not because he was delirious in his last two instances of attacking Sam with his mouth. He'd just been desperate the first time because he thought Sam had been killed, didn't know how to say he was glad Sammy was okay so he'd just let a kiss say it for him. Chicago... Well, Chicago is a write off. Fuck Chicago. Right now, Sam is too close and Dean needs to save them both from doing something that they've never really done in the light of day when either of them wasn't seriously injured or just had a near-death experience.

Letting his feet pull him backwards, Dean nudges his face away from Sam's hand and walks over to the table. Picking up Sam's phone, Dean turns on his heel and tosses it at his brother, who fumbles to catch it before it drops to the ground.

"We still gotta see about that painting."

Sam looks down at his cell like it's an ancient Mayan tablet that he doesn't know how to begin to decipher.

"...Which means you still gotta call Sarah." Dean prompts further.

Sam lifts his face to meet Dean's eyes, pausing for a moment. Dean can see the muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. Then he starts thumbing through the contact list and is fumbling his way through an awkward conversation like a hopeless teenager. Dean wishes he could say it makes him laugh out of secondhand embarrassment, but in all actuality, it just makes his heart beat that much harder at how endearing his little brother is when he's flustered. Yeah. Dean's fucked.

The crazy girl's doll is burned, the case is done, and Sam is cradling Sarah's face as he kisses her, slow and gentle. Dean makes himself watch. He sits back in the warm leather and stares at his brother and a girl necking it at the top of the stairs so he can have the image seared in the front of his brain for the next time he ever gets one of those fucked up feelings again.

When Sam creaks open his door and settles into the seat beside Dean, Dean keeps watching him. His brother looks happy for the first time in a long time, floating in some space in his head that leaves his eyes far off and unfocused. At Dean’s twisting the keys in the ignition, Sam finally turns to meet his gaze. Dean forces a grin onto his face, a bit surprised to find that it edges into a natural smile. This really was what Sam needed. Sam smiles back, a little dazed, before his eyes fall down to Dean’s mouth and stay there, even as Dean’s grin fades. Dean’s stomach plummets.

Facing the road, Dean sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly before pulling away from the curb. Even from the corner of his eye, he can see the air around Sam change and morph back into the low vibration of underlying sadness that follows him like a cloak. Dean props his elbow up on the door and digs two fingers into his left temple. It’s gonna be a long drive.

-

Two things are kind of making Dean lose his shit. First, that vampires actually exist, and for all the years he's been around, he didn't have a fucking clue. Second, that this Kate bitch is crushing his face with her fingers, leaving him with the distinct notion that if she squeezed one bit harder, he’d have a broken jaw.

“I don’t usually get this friendly until the second date.” Dean grunts through gritted teeth as he clamps down on her wrist. Jesus, she’s fucking strong. Why did he have to be bait?

“You know, we could have some fun. I always like to make new friends.”  Kate purrs before lowering him down to eye level and leaning in. Her kiss is harsh and quick, more like she’s trying to cut into his mouth with a dagger for a tongue. Dean scrunches up his face and dangles in her grip, not responding at all with the exception of his gag reflex. She even tastes dead.

Dean woofs out a breath before trying to smirk despite her claw-like grip on his cheeks. “Sorry. I don’t usually stay with a chick that long. Definitely not for eternity.”

Kate’s deadly smile grows wider at his words.

“You haven’t had a girl in your mouth for quite a while, honey. That boy you taste like, though…” Kate ducks forward again, prying Dean’s lips apart to suck on his tongue. Dean struggles now, kicking his legs out to try to connect with some body part that may loosen her hold on him, no, she can’t be fucking serious, Dean’s stomach curls and heaves, Jesus, he’s about to puke in her mouth, make it stop, Christ, make it _stop_. Kate shoves him back high in the air so he can’t reach her and tightens her fingers on his face, causing Dean to yell in pain.

“Why is that so familiar?” Kate muses, tilting her head to squint her eyes up at Dean before something clicks in her head, making the connection between Sam’s scent and whatever she tasted in Dean’s mouth, he can see it in the way her lips curl up. She fucking knows. Of all the people to find out. A fucking _vampire_. Half of Dean is cursing Sam and Dad to Hell for taking so fucking long and half of him is hoping they aren’t within a five mile radius of this conversation taking place right now.

“Your _brother_?” Kate whistles, long and low, slowly shaking her head back and forth without breaking her staring contest with Dean. “Now I’ve been naughty but that… that’s a whole new ballgame.”

The arrow that thunks through her back and protrudes from the front of her chest couldn’t have come at a better time, because Dean was just about to agree with a vampire. She drops him when the dead man’s blood starts to take hold before losing consciousness. Dean picks himself off the road, lifting his hands to massage his jaw before following Dad’s order to help Sam load her up in the Impala.

While the trunk of the Impala remains up like some sort of shield from the other vampire and their dad, Sam’s fingers dart forward to run over the sore spots peppering Dean’s jaw and chin.

“Get off me, I’m fine.” Dean snaps, swatting Sam’s hand away. He can’t look at Sam, not now.

“What’s your problem, man?” Sam hisses back, his hand falling to his side to ball into a fist.

Dean wraps his fingers around the lid of the trunk, ready to slam it shut over Kate’s limp body. He glares down at her, hating her hyper-awareness of scents and tastes and smells and what the fuck ever else being a vampire gives you, hating that she could wake up and start spewing her newfound knowledge as blackmail and consequently ruin his life.

“You didn’t-“ Dean clears his throat, still not meeting Sam’s gaze. “You and Dad, you couldn’t hear what she was saying from where you were. Right?”

Sam’s brow furrows. “No, Dean. I mean, we could hear that you were talking, but it was too faint for us to really hear anything.” When Dean doesn’t look up, Sam shifts forward. “Dean… What did she say to you?”

“Nothing, Sam. ‘S fine.” Dean elbows Sam out of the way so his head doesn’t get caught as Dean slams the trunk closed. “Just curious.”

He can hear Sam whispering his name harshly behind him, but Dean ignores him, walks up to Dad and gets the next instructions to meet in the woods and get a fire going so they can cover their scent. Dean wonders if it’ll wash away whatever traces of Sam are left on him.  


-

Pastor Jim and Caleb are dead, Dad’s MIA, and Dean is running out of a burning house with an important life in his arms for the third time. This is beginning to become a habit that he wishes he never had to start. Sam is outside and pushing Monica to her husband, who is shouting at them even as Dean stumbles up with their child. Monica berates him, sobbing as she pulls her daughter from Dean to cradle her to her chest, thanks them through her tears.

Coughing, Dean stands next to his brother and they both turn to face the house. Something dark is silhouetted by the window and hate licks at Dean’s insides like the flames in that nursey, but Dean doesn’t have time to stand and pour all of his loathing into the rest of his body because the next thing Dean knows, Sam is lunging forward to get to the front door. Dean throws himself on his brother, hauling backwards.

“Sam! Sam, _no_.”

“Dean, let me go, it’s still in there!” Sam struggles, elbowing and thrashing and fighting to get back in the house and Dean doesn’t understand, the flames are consuming the fucking building and Sam wants to go inside, dammit, Sam, stop trying to burn, _stop_.

“No. It’s burning to the ground, it’s suicide!” Dean yells, shoving Sam hard enough that he has to take a few steps back to stop from falling over, only to surge forward again into Dean’s waiting hands.

“I don’t care!”

“ _I do!_ ” Dean roars, spinning Sam to face him instead of the window, forcing Sam to see Dean’s panic and fear of losing him painted in giant swathes on his skin, hoping that Sam will just stop and fucking _listen_. He does. Sam’s chest is heaving, his body is shaking, but he stops. They both turn to watch the flames eat another house into blackened dust.

There’s nothing to do except go back to the motel and call Dad’s phone until Dean’s ear starts to go numb from how hard he’s crushing his cell to his head. After several failed attempts, Dean throws his phone on the table with a colorful accompaniment of swear words.

“If you had just let me go in there, I could have ended all this.” Sam’s voice is low and resentful and it makes Dean spin on his heel to glare at him.

“Sam, the only thing you would have ended was your life.”

Sam lifts his eyes under his bangs, his hands tightening into fists on his knees from where he’s sitting on the bed.

“You don’t know that.”

Dean strides forward, anger spiking high in his veins on top of the already present worry about Dad, this is fucking ridiculous, Sam’s not an idiot, stop being a fucking idiot, Sam.

“So, what, you’re just willing to sacrifice yourself, is that it?” Dean snaps.

Sam stands up, shoulders rolled back as he puffs his chest up and clenches his jaw.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

Heated rage ignites an inferno through Dean’s body, flushing out through his palms as he reaches forward to plant his hands on Sam’s chest and shove him as hard as he possibly can. Sam sucks in a breath, stumbling backwards to fall onto the bed again.

“You have a death wish, Sam? Is that it? You’re ready to kill yourself to waste this son of a bitch and you don’t even stop to think about what’s gonna happen if you actually do die!” Dean’s shouting, his hands fisting in the front of Sam’s shirt as he shakes his brother, tries to shake some goddamn sense into the kid because, Jesus, if Sam dies then what the fuck is keeping Dean from eating his own gun to follow right after? What’s the fucking point without Sam?

Sam rises under Dean’s fists, knocks them away to get in his own push on Dean’s shoulders to move him away from the bed.

“Dean, that thing killed Jess. That thing killed _Mom_.”

“You said yourself once that no matter what we do, they’re gone. And they’re never coming back.”

Dean’s back hits the wall before he even has a chance to blink, his skull cracking off the plaster with a thick sound. Sam’s twisting the collar of his shirt up into his fists and he’s inches away, tears brimming in his eyes as he grits his teeth.

“Don’t you say that, not you! Not after all this. Don’t you say that.”

Lifting his hands, Dean wraps them around Sam’s wrists, trying to get his lungs to push air in and out of his mouth around this lump in his throat.

“Sam, look.” Dean can feel the hot pressure behind his eyes, threatening to break through and he blinks fast to get rid of it. It doesn’t work. “The three of us… that’s all we have. And it’s all I have. Sammy, without you… man, I don’t even want to think of a life without you in it.” Dean’s crying now, his chest jerking against Sam’s fists as his breath hitches. “I can’t lose you, Sammy. I can’t fucking lose you. Don’t do that to me. Please don’t do that to me.”

When Sam leans in to crush his lips to Dean’s, Dean can taste the salt from their tears. It tastes like home.

-

They’re back together again. Dean’s about to pass out, can’t stop seeing black spots everywhere, but Sammy is in the driver’s seat, Sam’s eyes are on him in the rearview mirror when he says that killing the demon doesn’t come before everything. If Dean could remember how to move his face, he’d be smiling at his little brother, he’s sure of it. His last thought before blackness overtakes him with the sound of screaming metal is that if he was going to die in this moment, at least Sam would be the last thing he saw.

 


End file.
